


Glimpses

by RageSeptember



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Fluff, GW2020, Ian has some truly strange ideas, M/M, Mickey has some complicated feelings about Yevgeny, Post-Season 10, Roleplay, Secrets, Silly boys being silly, Truly Atrocious Pick-Up Lines, Vignettes, season 4, surprisingly healthy coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25450363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RageSeptember/pseuds/RageSeptember
Summary: A collection of one-shots written for Gallavich Week 2020.Day 1: Meet-Cute. Ian goes shopping and decides to pick up something not on his list.Day 2: Secrets. Mickey's had a few throughout the years.Day 3: Dancing. S4. Mickey doesn't like to watch Ian dance, and yet he cannot look away.Day 4: Kids. They've never really talked about Yevgeny. One day Mickey gets a phonecall.Day 5: Best Friends. Ian has more than one.Day 6: Domestic. Ian makes pancakes, Mickey remembers.Day 7: Soulmates. ”Is uncle Ian your soulmate?”
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 44
Kudos: 229
Collections: Gallavich Week 2020





	1. Meet-cute

Ian is relieved to find the supermarket near empty when he steps inside. He's in no mood to push through a crowd or having to jump out of the way to avoid being mowed down by old ladies brandishing coupons and hellbent on scouring the place for every last special deal.

He glances down at the list Debbie had forced on him this morning, in spite of his protests. ” _I_ can't pick this shit up, I'm going on a date,” she'd told him. ”Oh, and can you take Franny tonight? Liam is taking Carl to Troy's game, and Tami just laughed at me when I asked her if she and Lip could do it.”

He'd managed to weasel his way out of that one, at least, and Franny will now be spending the evening and night over at Kev and Vee's. A real relief, that, if truth be told. It's not that Ian doesn't love his niece dearly and doesn't like taking care of her, but after an insanely hectic day at work it's _not_ what he has in mind for his first evening off in a week.

Moving more or less on auto-pilot, Ian methodically works his way through Debbie's list, picking up milk, eggs, orange juice, and Pop-Tarts. He double-checks every item before crossing it off, wanting to make sure he doesn't forget anything. Groceries may be the last thing he wants to think about right now, but he plans on sleeping in tomorrow and isn't particularly feeling like having Debbie banging on his bedroom door at 6.30 am and demanding to know why there's no apples for Franny. (Since when do the Gallagher's eat fresh fruit anyway? Must be Tami's bad influence.)

Coming up on the candy section, eyes still peeled to the list, Ian manages to walk straigh into another customer. In fairness, the guy has planted himself right in the middle of the narrow aisle, making bumping into him more or less an inevitability for anynody trying to pass by. Ian still offers a hasty apology, bending down to pick up the chocolates the guy's dropped.

Well, would you look at that. It's Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Which just so happens to be Ian's favourite.

”Thanks,” the guy says, when Ian hands them over. He sounds more than a little suspicious, or maybe just cautious, like he's expecting Ian to pull a gun on him. It makes Ian want to roll his eyes, but he reins the impulse in and smiles instead.

He's got a good smile, he knows. Disarming, when he wants it to be.

Seems to be working pretty great right now, because the guy is smiling back like he can't help himself, suddenly looking a lot less threatening. He's shorter than Ian, and his black hair and eyebrows are almost shockingly dark against his pale skin. It looks good though, Ian thinks. It looks real good. Something about the way he carries himself suggests that maybe he isn't a person you want to mess with, and yeah, Ian can't deny being intrigued by that.

His eyes are also ridiculously blue. Maybe it's because of that, or maybe it's because Ian's just too damned tired to think of anything reasonable to say, but he blurts: ”You know those taste better when they're half-melted? You let them rest on your palm for a couple of minutes, then you eat them. I mean, you have to lick them off, but it's worth it.”

The smile disappears and the guy is once more eyeing him skeptically. For a moment Ian thinks he'll just turn around and walk away, but after a silence that is just slightly too long the guy replies: ”Is that so?”

There's _something_ in his voice, a husky note of _suggestion_ , and it sends a shiver down Ian's spine. Feeling encouraged, feeling reckless, he nods vigourosuly. ”Absolutely. And, uh, are your legs made out of Nutella, by the way? Because I'd like to spread them.”

A beat, while the other man stares and stares at Ian, as if trying to figure out if he is for real. Then his face crumples into a look of weary disgust. ”Jesus Christ, Ian,” Mickey says. ”The fuck?”

_So much for that..._

Somewhat embarrased, somewhat annoyed, Ian shrugs. ”It's role play,” he says pointedly. ”You're supposed to _play_ a _role_.”

”Yeah, and of course your corny ass decides to play the role of a fucking pick-up punster.” Throwing the Reese's into Ian's shopping cart, Mickey then crosses his arms over his chest. ”Why the fuck are we doing this again?”

Yeah, Ian is starting to seriously question that, too. It had seemed like a bit of fun, maybe, when his colleagues talked about it over drinks a few weeks ago, and while he and Mickey has always had great sex, they haven't really _experimented_ all that much, and isn't that something you're supposed to do when you've been together for almost ten years (on and off, but still)? So no harm in giving it a shot, right, and make their first evening together in a while something special.

He tells Mickey as much, just as he had last night.

Neither Mickey nor his eyebrows seem the least bit convinced. ”Still sounds like the sort of shit people who suck at sex come up with,” he says. ” _My_ husband is a pretty fucking great in the sack, so I'm not sure why I'd wanna pick up strangers at the goddamned grocery store when I could be home getting screwed six ways to Sunday.”

There's a startled little snort, and _fuck_ , where did that little old lady over by the hard candy come from? Ian feels his cheeks redden slightly; Mickey, predictably, just glares at the woman, but – small wonders – doesn't say anything. Forcing a polite smile, or an attempt at one, Ian puts a hand on Mickey's arm to guide him away, from the stupid hard candy and any nosy shoppers.

In the relative safety of the canned food aisle, Ian stops and turns to his husband. Embarrassment and annoyance is already fading: he has the evening off, he has Mickey, and once they get home they have the house to themselves. Failed attempt to role play or not, this is a _good_ evening. ”Pretty fucking great in the sack, huh?” he asks, feeling his lips curl into a small smile.

”Yeah, well,” Mickey is still maintaining a scowl, but his eyes are bright, warm. ”Has the worst fucking ideas, though.”

”Mhm. Sounds like maybe he should stop thinking so much and just take his husband home then. Have some takeout and watch a movie and then, you know, maybe screw six ways to Sunday?”

A grin on Mickey's face now, wide and pleased and growing. ”Yeah. Yeah, he should fucking do _that_.”

”Okay then.”

”Okay.”

They pick up the last few items on Debbie's list, pay, and head home. Ian can feel Mickey's eyes on him as they walk side by side down the street in the October twilight; hears the little smirk in his voice when he eventually asks: ”You really wanna lick melted Reese's off my body, man?”

Yeah. He'd have known this would come back to bite him in the ass. Whatever. He slings an arm around Mickey's shoulders. ”What if I did?”

Mickey snorts, but doesn't shrug them arm off. ”I'd let you,” he allows.


	2. Secrets

At thirteen he starts watching lesbian porn because there's someting _wrong_ about the way he reacts to the naked dudes in the regular stuff and it freaks him the hell out.

At sixteen he's in juvie and when Leon Raleigh sucks his dick it's the first time he's come without having to think about anything but exactly what is happening.

At eighteen he wants to kiss Ian Gallagher.

At twenty-two he spends hours and hours down in the dingy houseboat he's holed up in doing nothing but smoking and fretting, wondering if _he'll be there_ , if _he'll come_ , and the relief that washes over him at the sight of Ian waiting for him on the docks is near enough to knock him over.

At twenty-five his desire for a proper wedding with flowers and candles and cake does not, in the end, have anything to do with his miserable fuck of a father.

At twenty-eight he's spending the afternoon with Yevgeny for the third time in twice as many weeks and thinking that if this outing too goes well, he'll tell Ian about it, maybe bring him along for the next one.

At thirty-five he doesn't actually figure out Ian's exact (and grand) plans for their 10th wedding anniversary several weeks in advance, in spite of insistently claiming that his goofy ginger of a husband still can't play it cool for shit.

At forty-nine he's not changed his mind about college being a stupid and fucking expensive waste of time, but fine, he'll keep that to himself and cough up the money, if Bri really wants to go.

At seventy-six he still loves Ian as much as when they first held each other and fell asleep together in the dark; he is still as much _in love_ with Ian as when they first kissed and his young heart beat so very, very fast, with wonder and worry and joy. He looks at him, still, and cannot believe his luck.

(That's not really a secret.)


	3. Dancing

You don't like to watch him dance. It sets your teeth on edge and makes you feel like your skin's too tight, and crawling. Makes you want to punch something, preferably the face of any and all of these drooling old perverts who keep oogling Ian like he's the freshest cut of lamb on the menu.

You don't like to watch him dance, but you come to the club anyway, night after night after night. At least when you're there he can't be lured away with the promise of molly or coke, to do fuck knows what with fuck knows who. You can't keep the slack-dicked pill poppers from staring, but you sure as hell can stop them from touching.

You can do that. If you're there.

You don't like to watch him dance, but you can't take your eyes off of him. Not after so long without seeing him, touching him, having him. Not after so long of not knowing if you'd ever seetouchhave him again. Face in shadow; hips gyrating; those stupid fucking shorts not doing such a great job of hiding anything at all; it's not the way you want him, but you want him any which way, and you can't stop looking.

You hate that you can't quite shut down the little voice in your head telling you that this makes you not so very different from the rest of the horny fucking faggots in this fucking place.

You don't like to watch him dance and you know a huge part of is simple jealousy: you don't like _others_ watching him dance. Part of it is something else and more complicated and maybe linked to the memory of a clear-eyed kid telling you all about his dreams of getting into Westpoint, becoming an officer, of leading men -

Yeah. Whatever. Stupid fucking dream anyway.

Look, you're a pimp and your wife's a hooker. You don't have a problem with this shit, okay? People do what they need to do to get by, and if Ian can scam some cocksick old codgers out of a twenty or ten by batting his eyelashes at them and, you don't know, waving his dick in their faces or whatever, that's fine, that's fan-fucking-tastic.

It's you he comes home with anyway. You he kisses, falls asleep with, brings to parties, asks _what's wrong with fun?_

Fun.

Fun, fun, fun. He keeps talking about it, keeps telling you, and he smiles and he laughs and he jokes, and you banter and bang and share shots, and he's here, he's back, with you, and that's all that matters right, the rest is just fucking money and a bit of fun maybe, _fine_ , but sometimes there's this look in his eyes just before he turns his face away and for a moment you can't help but wonder if he's really having any fun at all.


	4. Kids

The call comes on a Thursday evening in October, right after everyone's sat themselves down for a mac and cheese dinner. Mickey picks up his phone, frowns at the display, and goes outside to take the call. When he returns he has a strange look on his face, but before Ian can ask him about it Franny spills her milk all over the table and is inconsolable, and then it's Ian's turn to do the dishes, and then Liam wants to interview him for a paper's he's writing, and yeah. Ian forgets all about the call.

He remembers it the next day, when Mickey is still unusually quiet and withdrawn, opening his mouth only to snap at whoever's nearby. Knowing his husband and knowing that sometimes it's better not to push, Ian gives him until Sunday to start talking. But Mickey doesn't, and so Ian waits until the rest of the family's out of the house, and then he grabs a couple of beers and walks over to the couch where Mickey's been sprawled since breakfast.

There's a rerun of last night's game playing on the TV, but Mickey is obviously not paying any real attention to it. He looks up when Ian sits down next to him, and his eyes narrow slightly when he's handed a beer. Understanding what's about to go down, most likely, and not liking it.

Too fucking bad. They're married now: they've got to talk about shit.

Ian takes a sip from his bottle, then looks straight at Mickey. ”So. Gonna tell me what's going on?”

It's a sign of how far they come, he thinks, when Mickey doesn't immediately brush him off; doesn't ask him what the hell he's on about or tells him to fuck off. Instead Mickey just keeps his unseeing eyes trained at the TV screen for a moment, and then his shoulders drop ever so slightly.

“Svetlana called,” he says, and before Ian can voice his surprise he plows on: “Apparently the kid's been asking about his dad. She wants me to see him.” He sneaks a quick glance at Ian, as if to gauge his reaction.

Ian doesn't know how to react. For something to do, he drinks deep of his beer while his mind races.

_The kid._ Yevgeny. They've not really talked about him. Not on the road to Mexico and not in prison and not after they got out, though he's been on Ian's mind more than once. It's complicated, that part of their lives, and hard to talk about, still. It's not made easier by Mickey's insistence they let the past be the past and _live in the fucking now, Ian, who the fuck cares what happened five years ago?_

“How did Svetlana get your number?” Ian asks, grasping for the easy, unimportant question.

Mickey shrugs. “I dunno, but apparently she's fucking loaded now – that old rich dude she married croaked a couple of years ago – so I guess she could've just paid some sucker to find out. She knew about Mexico.” He glances at Ian again. “Knew we got married. _Didn't_ know about me ratting out the cartel, thank fuck, or you bet she'd used that to blackmail me into seeing the kid.”

“You gonna do it?” Ian tries to keep his voice calm, neutral. This has to be Mickey's decision. Has to be, though Ian's heart fucking _aches_ at the thought of seeing Yevgeny again. He's got plenty of regrets, and the way he'd distanced himself from Svet and Yev when he tried to distance himself from everything that reminded him of Mickey sure as hell is one of them. Not one of the greater, perhaps, but one long gone unadressed, and painful for it.

But, Mickey's decision. Has to be that.

The look Mickey gives him suggests that he's not in any way fooled by Ian's casual demeanor. He doesn't mention it, though. “I don't know,” he says instead. “Kid's got a mom and lives in a fucking mansion. Don't really know what he'd need a gay convict dad for.”

There's a hint of uncertainty in his voice; a question hidden there. Unasked, though, so Ian is careful when he answers: “Pretty common for kids to want to know where they came from, right? Like, they're better off for knowing their parents, least a little.”

“We'd both be hell of a lot better off without our parents,” Mickey points out, and sure, that's not much Ian can say to that. But:

“Don't see you stealing his savings to buy drugs or trying to kill him over his sexuality, so I'd say you're still a step up from Frank or Terry.”

Mickey snorts. “Low fucking bar, Gallagher.”

Well, he's not wrong about that. Ian acknowledges the point with a grimace. ”Okay, forget about what's best for Yev for a moment,” he says. ”Do you _want_ to see him?”

”I don't know.” It comes quickly, annoyed, and Ian knows that Mickey is telling him the absolute truth; that he has been pondering this very question for the last few days, and is distressed that he's not come up with an answer yet.

Ian nods. Doesn't push. ”Okay.” He shifts a little bit closer so that he can put his arm around Mickey's shoulder, pressing a quick kiss to his hair. ”Let me know when you've decided?”

A sigh, as Mickey leans back against him, relaxing. ”Yeah.”

\---

Two days later he does, and Ian nods again and kisses him again, and when in a week Svetlana sends a car around to pick him up, Ian is there to watch him go, and there when he returns in evening, and when later that night, in bed, Mickey turns to him and begins to talk, Ian is there to listen.


	5. Best Friends

If someone had asked Ian at four or ten or fifteen who his best friend was, he'd have said Lip, not even pausing to think about it. From the moment Ian can remember, Lip's _there_ , and they laugh and they play and they fight and they grow, together and apart, and somehow they always end up back on the porch, sharing a quiet moment when they can't share a smoke or a beer anymore. Being Lip's brother is the first thing Ian knows about himself, and while it's not _always_ such a great thing, it is still always one of the truest.

If asked at sixteen he'd have said Mandy. Hell, if asked today, he'll still say Mandy, though he's only seen her twice in the last three years, and spoken to her on the phone only a handful of times. She was the friend he chose, the one who chose him, and he thinks that no matter how far she goes, how far away, she'll always be close: never more than a thought away. He'll overhear a couple of teenage girls gossiping about boys, and he'll remember her making a wry comment about the latest guy she banged; he'll watch a movie and know which characters she'd love and hate; he'll ask for olives on his pizza and in his mind's eye see her shake her head. He'll smile then, happier, and less alone.

But if the question is who he'd rather spend the evening chilling on the couch with, he'll say Mickey, and if it's who he'd rather go to a game with, he'll say Mickey, and if it's who'd he rather go talk to when he's feeling like shit, he'll say Mickey. If _asked_ , Ian might say that he doesn't always know who he is or will be, but that doesn't terrify him nearly as much when he's with Mickey, because he's always felt the most _himself_ when he's with the other man, and whoever that self happens to be, he'll look up and find Mickey's eyes on him, and in those eyes he's always found.

If asked Ian might say that maybe you can have several best friends; different ones for different times and the different parts of you. He thinks that perhaps love need not be so very neatly labelled and allocated, anyway, and is not lessened for being shared. 

(If someone had asked Mickey at four or ten or sixteen or today, he'd give them an incredulous stare: ”What's this, fucking kindergarten?” Only maybe then he'd mutter, as he lights up a cigarette and walks way from your stupid ass question: ”Fuck would I need a fucking best friend for anyway, I've got Ian.”)


	6. Domestic

It's almost ten when Mickey emerges from the bedroom and heads downstairs in search of Ian. They both have the day off, and he's slightly disappointed that his husband didn't wake him up for a nice morning fuck, but the disappointment immediately fades when he spots him by the stove, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, nothing on his feet.

”Hey,” Mickey says, pausing to run a hand over Ian's arm and inhaling his scent before pouring himself a cup of coffee.

”Hey,” Ian replies, looking up from the frying pan to favor him with a quick grin over his shoulder. ”Making pancakes.”

Mickey's about to say something snarky about stating the fucking obvious, but the words die on his lips. Somehow and strangely, the sight of Ian and the simple joy it inspires brings with it other and darker emotions; a painful tug of something half forgotten, and a sense of foreboding –

Mickey frowns. And then he remembers:

He wakes, and something is different. It takes him but a moment to realize what it is: Ian's not in bed with him. For the past two weeks, ever since Mickey came out and Ian disappeared into that weird fucking fog his siblings want to call bipolar disorder, he's been curled up on his side whenever Mickey opens his eyes. For the first few days he'd only ever gotten up to go to the bathroom, and done it reluctantly at that. He's been doing a little better since, but still moves like a zombie, hardly speaks – and doesn't get up until noon.

But now the bed next to Mickey is empty. Hopeful, worried, he hastily reaches for a t-shirt and pads out from his – their – room. The sitting area is empty, but there's a pleasant smell wafting through the air from the kitchen, where Ian is stood in front of the stove, dressed, and with a spatula at the ready.

He looks up at Mickey; smiles. ”I made pancakes.”

And Mickey smiles back, sharp relief mixing with a surge of something warm and strong in the vincinity of his heart. Thinks, _we'll be all right now._

For a while they are. Ian keeps getting up in the mornings. Sometimes he makes pancakes, sometimes Svetlana makes eggs, and yeah, sometimes Mickey makes toast for everybody. They look after the kid and they make money and he goes to sleep with Ian in the evenings (or whenever Ian gets home from the club) and Svetlana shares a bed with Nika. It's a bit weird, maybe, but it _works_.

It works.

Mickey is happy. For the first time he can remember, he feels _happy_ , and safe, and like maybe it isn't so bad after all, this life. Maybe there _can_ be happiness – even here, and even for someone like him.

And then one night Ian doesn't come home and Mickey finds out that he's been cheating on him. And everything else happens, it all falls apart, even though for a while it seems like maybe they can work it out, but no, no, it all comes crashing down, and when the dust finally settles Mickey is in prison, and Ian has stopped coming to visit.

_Fuck._ Blinking once, twice, Mickey pulls away from the memory. Shakes his head as if to clear it: doesn't quite manage.

The nasty thing is, he couldn't have imagined it, on that happy morning in the kitchen five years ago. He'd felt so safe and happy and _sure_ then, and he could never in a million years have guessed how very quickly absolutely everything would go so very straight to hell. And he _should_ have known, he'd thought later: he'd been living on the edge of utter chaos his entire life, balancing there, occasionally slipping over, and he should have _known_.

But he hadn't. He'd been too fucking happy, and stupid with it.

Mickey takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly and looks up to find his husband eyeing him with a frown.

”What's going on?” Ian asks.

”Don't worry about it,” Mickey says, walking over to the table with his coffee mug and sitting down. ”Stupid fucking memories.”

”Oh.” Ian doesn't ask him to elaborate. Probably doesn't need to; he's a perceptive motherfucker.

Still, when he brings the plate of pancakes over, he catches Mickey's eyes and asks: ”You sure you're okay?”

Reaching out to briefly squeeze his hand, Mickey nods. ”Yeah, man, I'm fine.”

And – he means it. Sure it still stings, the memories of all that fucking pain and heartbreak, and all those years spent apart: maybe it'll always sting. But behind the hurt there's something else, something equally true and even stronger: the knowledge that they _had_ found their way back to each other. In spite of everything, in spite of all that goddamned _shit_ , they'd done that.

Will do it again, should the need ever arise. Do it quicker and better too, because they're not fucking kids anymore; they've been through a lot and learned a lot and they've chosen each other for a reason.

”Okay. Good.” Ian bends down to capture his lips in a kiss, and Mickey tilts his head to meet him, putting a hand behind his head to pull him closer. It doesn't last very long; it is chaste rather than passionate, but Mickey is still grinning when they break apart.

”Pancakes smell fucking delicious,” he says.


	7. Soulmates

”Is uncle Ian your soulmate?”

”What's that, kid?” Mickey looks up from his cereal to find Franny staring at him with those large and insanely innocent eyes. (How a child with Debbie Gallagher for a mother ended up so sweet is absolutely beyond Mickey. He sure as hell never had eyes that innocent, not even at six, and he's pretty sure none of the other Gallaghers did either.)

” _Is_ uncle _Ian_ your s _oulmate_?” Franny repeats, patient but slightly exasperated, the way only a six-year-old weary of grown-up cluelessness can be.

”Uh.” Mickey glances around the table for rescue or at least a bit of help but – unsurprisingly – none is forthcoming: Debbie is busy with her phone and Liam with double-checking his homework, like the little nerd he is. Ian was here a moment ago, but has apparently disappared. Mickey is on his own.

And really, he should be used to these questions by now, because they just keep coming. Somehow Franny never got the memo about him _not being a people person_ , which may or may not have something to do with the way Ian keeps volunteering them for babysitting duty. Mickey can't decide if it's great that his husband's found an outlet for his inexplicable desire to care for tiny humans that doesn't involve them getting their own kids, or if it's fucking annoying that Ian insists on wasting their precious free time on people other than Mickey. Admittely, Ian mostly volunteers himself to look after Franny, but in practise that means Mickey too, because he has a thing for hanging out with his husband, fuck you very much. And maybe it's just an evening a week or so, _but_.

Mickey has a sneaking suspicion that the whole thing is a not-nearly-as-subtle-as-you-think-Gallagher way of warming him up to the idea of maybe one day having a little brat or two of their own. Maybe it's kind of working. Franny ain't too bad, and there's something about seeing Ian interact with her, or Freddie, that _does_ things to Mickey. He's not telling Ian that, though, even if he suspects that the bastard already knows.

Anyway. The point _is_ , Franny's insistence on asking him weird ass questions at all hours is absolutely Ian's fault and so Ian should have the fucking deceny to not just disappear when she starts chirping about goddamned _soulmates_.

”You gonna finish your toast?” he asks, in an attempt at deflection. He can't very well tell the kid that the notion of soulmates sounds like a stinking pile of sappy fucking bullshit, not with Debbie sitting right there, and he has no idea of what else to say.

”Yes,” Franny says, without making any move to pick up her toast and without looking away from him. ” _Is_ he, uncle Mickey?”

”Is who what?” Ian says, finally reappearing from wherever to sit down next to them, _thank God_.

Franny's face lights up. She likes Mickey all right, far more than she reasonably should really, but she fucking _adores_ Ian. (Mickey sympathizes.)

”Jennie said her mommy and daddy are soulmates and they always have to be together and they just like each other so much they can't like anyone else so much and they can't be with anyone else, they can only be with each other,” Franny explains eagerly, pleased to have a captive audience at last. ”Jennie said if you have a soulmate you have to be with them or you won't be happy, you won't be happy _ever_ , you will be _heartbroken_.” She stumbles a little over the last word, but looks at Ian expectantly. ”Is uncle Mickey your soulmate?”

”Uncle Mickey?” Ian grins. ”Nah. But he'll do 'til someone better-looking comes along.”

Not missing a beat, Mickey kicks him under the table. Does it pretty hard too, because sure it's a joke, but given how many times Ian's walked out on him, it's not a very funny one.

Ian seems to realize as much. Though his face twists briefly with pain, he doesn't say anything and doesn't move to retaliate. He gives Mickey a quick glance, and there might be a hint of apology there, but it's Franny he turns to when he continues talking. Which is just as well, really, because she's watching him with a confused and distincly worried look, and if she actually starts crying Mickey might have to kick Ian's ass for real.

”I'm just kidding, Franny,” Ian says now, gently. ”I'm not sure if there's really such a thing as soulmates, if you mean that there's a person that you're _meant_ to be with and that you can't ever be happy without, but I don't want to be with anyone but uncle Mickey, okay? I love him and it makes me really sad when we're not together.”

And fuck it, but Mickey has to work very hard to keep a big stupid grin from growing on his face. Since they're not fucking pussies neither him nor Ian make a habit of going around and blabbing about their feelings for each other the whole damned time, especially not in front of other people, but he still doesn't hate hearing it out loud like this. Doesn't hate others hearing it too.

Franny's been listening to Ian with a frown, as if considering each word very carefully, but once he falls silent her face clears. ”Then you and uncle Mickey are soulmates,” she declares with pleased finality. ”Like Jennie's mommy and daddy.”

”Okay,” Ian agrees easily. His hand reaches for and finds Mickey's under the table, squeezing it. Mickey squeezes back.

Soulmates, huh. He guesses he can live with that, sappy bullshit or not.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I made it! One ficlet for each of the themes! Sure, they are all tiny little things, but I am unreasonably pleased with myself, because I'm not - ahem - great with deadlines and writing to order. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, leaving kudos and commenting! <3


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